Chapter Sixteen
Patrick studied the door on the horse box. It was made of heavy wood with forged iron hinges on the outside. It was built to contain animals weighing hundreds of pounds. But he couldn’t accept that there wasn’t some way out. “Stand back,” he told Stacy.
When she’d moved out of the way, he took a few steps back, rushing the door. He slammed into the heavy wood, the impact reverberating through his already battered body, rattling his teeth and blurring his vision. The door didn’t budge.
“I don’t believe this!” Stacy wailed. “We’ve got to get out of here and find Carlo!” Her voice rose in a shout of frustration. Patrick felt like shouting with her. Instead, he looked around the bare stall for anything he could use to hack or pry at the door.
“Mommy? Mommy, where are you?”
He froze and looked to Stacy, whose eyes locked with his. “Carlo?” She ran to the door and stood on tiptoe, as close to the rectangular wooden vent at the top of the door as she could get. “Carlo, Mommy is here, in the horse box.”
Shuffling sounds—small feet on concrete and hay—moved toward them. “Mommy, I want to see you.”
“I’m in the horse box, baby. Someone locked the door and I can’t get out. I need you to help me.”
Small fists pounded on the door. “Come out, Mommy.”
Stacy knelt now, making herself the height of a three-year-old. “I’ll come out, baby. But I need your help. Look up, at the top of the door. Do you see the bolt?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you climb on something and get to that bolt? Is there a feed bucket or something you can stand on?”
“There’s a bucket in the feed room.”
“Then be a good boy and get it and bring it over to the door.”
He didn’t answer, but Patrick thought he must have moved away. Stacy closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the door. Patrick moved to put a hand to her shoulder. She must be exhausted, but they’d all be out of here soon, she and Carlo safe.
Something scraped on the concrete. “I got the bucket!” Carlo shouted.
“Good. Now turn it upside down and put it in front of the door. Climb on top of it, but be careful.”
“Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m a good climber.”
“I’m sure you are. But be careful.”
Patrick scarcely dared to breathe while they waited. The last thing they needed was the boy falling and busting his head on the concrete floor. The bucket rattled and the boy beat his fists against the door. “I made it!”
“Great,” Stacy said. “Now reach up and pull back the bolt.”
“I have to stand on tippy-toes.” Scrabbling noises, accompanied by little grunts. “It’s in there really hard.”
“You’re a strong boy. Pull hard.”
A metallic
thunk
announced the bolt’s moving. “I did it!” Carlo crowed. “I opened the door.”
“That’s wonderful, baby. Now climb down and move away from the door so I can come out.”
More scraping and fumbling with the bucket. “You can come out now, Mommy.”
Stacy eased open the door. Carlo hurtled into her arms. “What were you doing in there, Mommy?” he asked, his arms around her neck. “Were you hiding?”
“That’s right, baby.” She stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. “We were hiding, but not from you.”
The boy looked over her shoulder at Patrick, eyes wide. “I was hiding,” he said. “But I got cold, so I came into the barn.”
“You did great.” She hefted the boy onto her hip and turned to Patrick. “Can we go now?”
“In a minute.” He scanned the passageway and the area around the stalls, then slipped into the feed room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a short-bladed knife on a shelf there and pocketed it. He picked up a horse blanket and took it to Stacy. “Wrap the boy up in this.”
She tucked the blanket around her son. “When we get to the car, you’ll be a lot warmer,” she said.
One hand resting lightly on Stacy’s shoulder, Patrick leaned in to address the little boy in her arms. “We’re going to sneak past your uncle and his guards and go to my car, which is parked on the road through the woods. It’s kind of a long way for your mom to carry a big guy like you. Would you let me carry you?”
Carlo put his thumb in his mouth and looked at his mother. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll be right here beside you.”
The boy nodded, then held his arms out to Patrick. That simple gesture of trust brought a lump to his throat. He settled the boy against his chest; the weight felt good there. Right. Stacy’s eyes met his across the top of the boy’s head and she offered a weary smile. “Thanks,” she whispered.
He should be thanking her. Until he’d met her, his life had revolved around work and duty. He still took those things seriously, but she made him see beyond the job, to other things that might matter to him. “Let’s go,” he said. “Stay close to me and keep to the shadows.”
Once he’d determined the coast was clear, they left the barn. The yard was silent and still, not so much as a moth fluttering around the light over the back steps of the house. No one called Carlo’s name or ran through the yard. Had they called off the search for now, or taken it farther afield?
He guided Stacy around the perimeter of the light, the knife clutched in one hand, ready to lash out at anyone who came near. Once they reached the pasture and the deeper darkness there, they’d retrieve their snowshoes and be able to move faster. They wouldn’t stop again until they reached the car. In half an hour they’d be headed toward Denver, where he’d find a safe house for Stacy and her son until the task force had rounded up Nordley and Uncle Abel and everyone else involved.
They’d reached the edge of the yard when a woman’s scream tore apart the night silence. He whirled and saw a woman racing across the yard, a man chasing after her. The man grabbed the woman by her long hair and dragged her back toward the house. “The babysitter,” Stacy whispered.
“Why is he hurting Justine?” Carlo asked.
“I don’t know, baby.” Stacy rubbed his back and looked at Patrick with eyes full of questions.
“That was one of Nordley’s thugs,” Patrick said. “Maybe she panicked and threatened to go to the authorities.”
“Maybe so.” She continued rubbing Carlo’s back. “Was Justine nice to you, honey?”
“She was real nice. So were Uncle Abel and Grandma.” His lower lip trembled. “When will I see them again? Uncle Abel promised me a pony.”
Before she could answer, the back door to the house flew open once more. This time a man rushed down the steps, followed by one of the thugs. “Is that Uncle Abel?” Stacy asked.
The first man was Abel. He and the younger, burlier man struggled, then three gunshots sounded,
Pop! Pop! Pop!
like firecrackers in the winter stillness. Abel slumped to the ground, and a dark stain formed on the snow. Patrick cradled Carlo’s head against his shoulder, turned away so the boy wouldn’t see.
“What’s happening?” Stacy whispered, as she pulled the blanket over Carlo’s head.
“Mo-om! What are you doing?” He tried to push the blanket away, but she held it in place.
“You don’t have a hat. I don’t want your head to get cold,” she said.
The younger man dragged Abel back into the house. Patrick couldn’t tell if the old man was alive or dead. “Do you think Nordley turned on him?” Stacy asked. “We have to do something.”
“You really want to help these people?”
“They were kind to Carlo. And they’re the only relatives he has left. If the senator is attacking them...”
She was right. He couldn’t abandon two old people and the babysitter to Nordley’s thugs. “Let me get you and Carlo to the car, then I’ll come back.”
“No. I won’t leave you. And two people against Nordley are better than one.”
Not when one of the people was a woman with a little boy to look after, but he didn’t bother to say it. He knew Stacy well enough by now to know he wouldn’t be able to convince her to leave. “We need a way to draw them out,” he said. “If we try to charge the house, they have the advantage.”
“Let’s find a safe place to leave Carlo.” She looked around the compound. “I wish we had someplace warmer.”
“That’s it.” Patrick felt the surge of excitement that accompanied a good idea, one he knew would succeed. “We need to start a fire. That will draw them out of the house, plus alert the agents who are watching the place.”
“How are we going to start a fire?” she asked. “We don’t have any matches.”
“Leave that to me.”
The building farthest from the house in the ranch compound was an open-sided shed half filled with hay. If Patrick could get the hay going, it would make a bright, hot fire with a lot of smoke, perfect for raising the alarm. He searched the feed room and grabbed a flashlight. Further searching among the supplies on the shelves produced a wad of steel wool. “What are you going to do with that?” Stacy asked.
“I’m going to start a fire. Come on. Let’s get to the hay barn.”
Two minutes later they crouched in the deep shadow of the barn. Patrick pulled hay loose from the bales until he had a foot-high pile in the open area at one end of the shed. Then he unscrewed the top from the flashlight and set the two batteries next to each other nestled in the hay. He tore off a piece of steel wool. “Take Carlo to the end of the shed,” he told Stacy. “Just to be safe.”
She did as he asked. He dropped the steel wool on top of the batteries, bridging the gap between the posts. The batteries sparked and the wool burst into flames. He nudged the burning wool onto the hay, which caught quickly. Within seconds a line of fire crept across the floor, toward the bulk of the hay stacked at the end of the shed.
Patrick joined Stacy and Carlo just outside the building. “Now we wait.” He started toward the house. When Nordley or his thugs emerged, Patrick would be ready.
* * *
B
Y
THE
TIME
they reached the house, flames had climbed to the roof of the hay shed. The fire crackled and popped like small-arms fire and smoke filled the air, stinging the nose. The agents watching the ranch would have seen the blaze by now, and the people in the house were bound to notice soon. Gaze fixed on the back door, Patrick saw the first movement and pulled Stacy and the boy into the deeper shadows beside the house as the door burst open and Senator Nordley, followed by Stevie, ran out. “Get the hose,” Nordley shouted. “I’ll turn on the water!”
“Abel must be hurt badly,” Stacy whispered, “if he’s not coming to help.”
Patrick nodded and started toward the steps, but Stacy rushed past him, Carlo in her arms. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. “Let me go in first,” he said.
She nodded. “Of course.” She stepped back to let him pass. “I’m just worried about Abel and Willa.”
Right. The people who had kidnapped her child and threatened to kill her. But they’d been kind to the boy, and something about them had touched her. Despite her tough attitude, Stacy had a tender heart. Ordinary things—not littering and taking care of family—mattered to her. “Here’s the plan,” he said. “I go in first. We know there’s just one guard. I’ll overpower him. Don’t come in until I give you the signal.”
She frowned. “But—”
“You need to stay here with Carlo.”
She nodded. “All right.” She moved to the side of the door with the boy, into the shadows on the far side of the steps. Knife at the ready, Patrick opened the door and slipped inside.
The kitchen was deserted, though the sound of the television still drifted from the living room. He peered into the room and saw the two women seated side by side on the sofa. The coffee table had been shoved out of the way and Abel lay on the floor at the women’s feet, his face pale, eyes closed.
The guard stood a few feet away, cradling an AR-15, his head turned so he could look out the window toward the blazing hay shed. To reach the guard, Patrick would have to approach from the kitchen, making him an easy target.
Someone moaned, low and painful. “He’s awake,” Willa said, and leaned toward her son.
So Abel wasn’t dead, though from here Patrick couldn’t tell how badly he was injured. The old man moaned again, louder.
“Don’t move,” the guard ordered.
But both women had already dropped to their knees and were fussing over the injured man. The guard turned from the window and came over to them, his back to Patrick.
Patrick charged. In three strides he crossed the room and drove the knife blade between the guard’s ribs. The man screamed and loosened his grip on the rifle enough for Patrick to wrestle it from him. The man froze when the marshal pointed the gun at his chest. “Facedown on the floor,” Patrick ordered.
“I’m bleeding.” The guard looked at the blood seeping down his side.
“You’ll bleed more if you don’t do as I tell you.”
The guard lowered himself to the floor and lay on his stomach. Patrick turned his attention to the women. “We need something to tie him up,” he said.
The younger woman, Justine, who was near Abel’s age, tugged a scarf from around her neck. “You can use this.”
“You use it.” Patrick motioned with the gun. “Tie his hands, then find something to tie his feet.”
She nodded and knelt beside the guard while Patrick turned his attention to Abel. Willa leaned over her son. “Do something,” she pleaded. “You can’t let him die.”
Abel appeared to have been shot in the right shoulder, and again in the thigh. Blood pooled around him on the floor, but had started to clot. He was pale and his breathing was labored, but when Patrick checked his pulse, it beat steady and strong, if a little rapid. “What happened?” he asked.
“He overheard the senator tell one of his men that when they found Carlo they should just kill him,” Willa said. “Then Abel, as next of kin, could petition the court to get the money. Abel couldn’t let that happen. Justine ran out, thinking she would find the boy first and hide him. Abel tried to distract the senator. They got into an argument and one of the guards shot him. Then they ordered us all in here.” She stroked her son’s forehead. “We needed the money to help save the ranch, but we fell in love with Carlo. We couldn’t let that man hurt him.”
Justine had finished tying up the guard. “Let me get some things to clean his wounds,” she said.